


Bruises Don't Count as Tattoos

by drugstoreperfume



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Anal Sex, Artist Gerard Way, Blood, Depression, Drug Use, Frerard, Jealousy, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Multichapter, Oral Sex, Rape, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, Sexual Abuse, Smoking, Tattoos, Theft, Tie Kink, Vibrators, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:29:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2473229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drugstoreperfume/pseuds/drugstoreperfume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tattoo AU: Gerard's been stuck in an abusive relationship for three years, and his addiction to alcohol finds him robbing a corner store late at night when Frank's doing a shift.<br/>Frank's tattoo parlor is failing and all of his hard work is going down the drain, but when he sees Gerard's art, he knows he's found the one person that could make him enough money to pay back his debt to his ex-girlfriend and keep the store.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of the End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bloodinfecticns](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bloodinfecticns).



> For Jodie (bloodinfecticns)
> 
> Some ongoing Tattoo AU because I love that shit.

He was caught. He’d never been caught before.

“Hey! Hey, you!”

Panicking, Gerard shoved his hand in his pocket and ran. He clutched at the packet of cigarettes tightly.

Trainers hammering on the pavement, Gerard tore towards the park a few streets away. Dressed in all black, he could use the night to disguise him, but while he was doused in the glow of the streetlamps, his attire was of no use to him. Besides, even if it was, he could guess that the employee at the desk of that seemingly-unimportant booze store had a keen eye, so Gerard would need the silhouettes of the trees in the park to mask him.

Shit, shit. How could he have been so careless? If only he had positioned himself right, he could have slipped them in unnoticed, but that sharp little bugger could have seen him from a fucking mile away. Short as hell, too, he was, poking his head around the desk at just the right moment to catch him in the act. For fuck’s sake, he was such an idiot.

Painfully, his bag thwacked against his thigh as he hurtled down the street, the liquid inside sloshing around. Normally, Gerard would take care not to smash the bottle he’d taken, but now his priority was to get away, and fucking fast.

“Hey, come back here!”

Behind him, running just as fast with shorter legs was the employee, hazel eyes firm in the light. Taking no time to check out his pursuer, Gerard picked up his speed.

The lactic acid in his body made his legs and side burn, and his sharp breaths were more like hisses of pain than intakes of oxygen, but running on adrenaline alone, he continued. He’d learned how to run for his life before now; he could do it again.

“I will call the police if you don’t stop, I will! I’ve seen your face, fucker!”

The _police_. God, what would his art school say if he… And what about… If the police were involved, what the fuck would Gerard even do?

Gerard imagined his brother, Mikey, sitting opposite him on visiting day, face contorted into a mask of shame and guilt for him, something he hoped he’d never see on Mikey’s face for him. His own guilt at even this hypothetical situation hammered in his brain like a conscience, if he still had one after all of this; if some small part of him still understood the difference between right or wrong.

But there was nothing he could do anymore. Even if he got to the park, he could tell that little fucker wasn’t going to be forgetting him anytime soon, and who was he to know if he would call the police or not? If he ran, he’d keep running until someone forced him to stop. If he stopped, God knows what would happen.

Sighing, he faced the music.

“Jesus Christ, you’re one speedy son of a bitch,” panted the employee behind him. He murmured to himself, “It had to be on my fucking shift.”

Shaking slightly, Gerard turned around to face the short, angry man that had chased him down the road, sweaty fingers clutching at the small box in his pockets. His throat felt like it had closed – he’d never been caught before, not ever in the three years he’d been doing this. The thought of bolting now was very tempting, but his pride, minimal as it was, rooted him to the spot.

“Well, let’s keep this short and simple, shall we?” said the employee, the heat fading from his face, pants slowing and quietening. “Hand them over.”

Resigned, Gerard reached into his bag and handed the bottle of vodka over to the employee. That little employee was stronger than he looked at first, holding the large bottle firmly in relatively large, tattooed hands.

“Shit, dude, I have to give you some credit, I didn’t see you take this.” He whistled in admiration. “I meant the cigarettes.”

Dread pooled in Gerard stomach. “…Can I have the vodka back, then?”

“Fuck no. Are you crazy?”

“Long shot,” Gerard snorted.

Rolling his eyes, the employee folded his arms over his chest and said, “Well, hand over the cigarettes. I can’t hang out here all day.”

Panicking, Gerard shook his head. His throat was dry and his head was already starting to pound, plus he knew what a certain someone would say if he came home empty handed: he needed the cigarettes.

“Come on, make this easy for both of us.”

Fingers clenching tighter over the box, Gerard replied, “No.”

Exasperated, the employee sighed and said, “Well, you gonna pay for them then?”

Quickly, Gerard fumbled in the pockets of his jeans and hoodie for some little scrap of money that could cover for him, but they were as empty as his stomach felt right now, churning and twisting. He hadn’t been expecting this situation, or he’d have stolen some money. It seemed his cockiness, his feeling of invincibility about the shoplifting, was kicking him in the ass like karma. He shook his head again.

“For fuck’s sake.” The employee turned around, ruffling his hair with his arm, looking striking in the half-light of the streetlamps overhead. “Truth be told, I don’t really want to arrest anyone, and especially not you.” Grinning, he continued, “You look like you need about thirteen hours of sleep, a long shower and a good lay. ”

Silently, Gerard waited.

“Just take them. Fuck it.” The employee smiled.

Gerard widened his eyes in disbelief. The knotting of his internal organs ceased for one moment while he processed what was happening.

“But give one to me first, I’ve been itching for one for hours,” laughed the employee. He reached over, opened the packet and took a cigarette from it. “You got a light?”

Trembling, Gerard handed him his lighter, still shocked from what had happened. He handed it over, saving himself the shame of trying to flick it open when he knew his quaking thumbs wouldn’t be able to complete the task without burning himself down to the bone.

Lighting it, the employee spoke: “What’s your name?”

Gerard remained silent.

Spoke billowed out of the employee’s mouth when he laughed and said, “I’m not going to arrest you. I just want to know your name.”

Gerard’s weak attempt at a smile back seemed to suffice for the employee. “I’m Gerard. Gerard Way.”

Frank’s mouth dropped open. “No kidding?”

“I – huh, why are you shocked about that?”

“You totally used to sing at that bar, didn’t you? The one downtown.”

Oh, God. Gerard tried to forget that. “Yeah. Shit, dude, it was ages ago. Not a good time for me.”

“But damn, you were good. I saw you a lot,” confessed the employee, dragging on his cigarette.

Lighting his own, Gerard replied, “What, were you a regular?”

“Nah, I was completely and utterly devoted to you,” Frank replied, smirking.

Gerard blushed.

“Relax, I’m kidding. I worked at the bar then.”

The bar? But the employee looked pretty young – eighteen, nineteen? Had Gerard passed him before? Maybe at the bar? He thought he’d remember such a shockingly attractive face; he wasn’t the conventional attractive that you sometimes saw, but there was something about the structure and set of his bones, and the glow of his eyes, that was so startling and alluring.

“Aren’t you a little young to be working at a bar?” asked Gerard, hoping it wasn’t rude of him: probably not, as from the sounds of the bashfulness in his voice as he confessed he worked in a bar, he knew exactly how young he looked.

For once, the smirk slipped from the employee’s face and was replaced by a deep blush, his eyebrows pulling in. “I’m twenty-two, thank you. But - but yeah, I was eighteen then.”

He didn’t vocalize this, but Gerard was shocked that the staff at even a bar that sleazy would have accepted a fake ID from this shorty. Even at twenty-two for real, Gerard wouldn’t let him in.

“Anyway, I’m Frank Iero. I run a little tattoo parlor downtown,” introduced the employee – Frank. His defined hands flicked the ash from the cigarette onto the ground, a practiced, smooth gesture that strangely drew Gerard’s attention. The tattoos running along his hands said ‘bookworm’ and ‘halloween’, two seemingly unconnected words that Gerard didn’t try to decipher.

“I steal shit from stores,” joked Gerard, shaking Frank’s hand.

Frank gave a little rueful smile, before asking, “You got any tattoos?”

Gerard shook his head frantically, chuckling a little. “Fear of needles.”

“Also known as being a huge wimp.”

“Shut up, you.” Gerard nudged him in the side with his elbow, causing Frank to giggle – giggle, what a loser – and squirm away. Something about Frank put Gerard at ease, some aura he put off making him feel like he could say anything and Frank wouldn’t be annoyed. Probably synthetic companionship, but Gerard felt assured by it all the same.

Finally, Frank dropped his cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with his heel, and Gerard put his out and dropped it into a nearby bin.

“Nice to meet you, Gerard Way who has a fear of needles, steals from stores and does seductive music acts at dirty bars.”

“Nice to meet you too, Frank Iero who works at a tattoo parlor but also an alcohol store and worked in that dirty bar when he was just eighteen.”

They shared a grin, and then they shared their numbers on tiny scraps of paper.

As Gerard walked away from Frank, who had slinked back into his shop and had begun to check the number of items on the shelves, Gerard checked his phone to put Frank’s number in and:

**U got the shit?  
**

**Gerard, I’m fuckin dying**

**Fucking reply to me, damn it**

  **Where are u?**

**I want you home in five minutes or I will beat your fucking whore ass**

The last text was sent twenty minutes prior to the moment when Gerard started to cry helplessly, shoving his phone into his pocket and beginning to run home with a half-empty packet of cigarettes, no booze and another man’s number in his pocket.

The bruises on Gerard’s inner thigh ached with every step.


	2. Needles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re not going to get caught again, are you?” asked Louie, smirking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote two chapters today! Wow! Gonna aim to write one tomorrow too, but I won't make any promises, as I have GCSEs to study for (exams in England).

Louie was sitting in his chair, pinstripe suit on, fingers curled around the arms of it.  The lights were dim and their reflection was like molten gold in his hair. He didn’t turn around, didn’t speak, merely stared at Gerard in the mirror across the room, his eyes meeting Gerard’s in the reflection. 

With a gulp, Gerard set down his bag and walked past the living room to the kitchen.

For a good while, as Gerard began to pour the coffee beans into the machine, neither of the two said anything, but as the strong coffee was filtered into the mug, releasing a bittersweet aroma around the house, Louis spoke.

“Do you have the shit?” he asked, calmly.

Swallowing back the sour presence of tears, Gerard choked out, “No.”

Louie gasped a small intake of air, and then was silent again as Gerard stirred his coffee.

“None of it?” he replied after a while.

“No,” whispered Gerard.

“Say that again.”

“None of it,” repeated Gerard, taking a shaky sip.

Silence fell again, before he said, “Get in here, Gee.”

Lip sore from biting it, Gerard set down his coffee and shuffled into the sitting room, arms tightly wound around his abdomen, head ducked with shame.

“What were you doing for the last hour and a half?”

“I – I don’t…”

Suddenly, Louie span round, his jaw squared, surrounded by dark stubble, his mouth turned down and his dark, dark eyes dead in their sockets, eclipsed by shadow due to the angle of the light. His strong features and muscular sensuality would have struck Gerard down to his core with arousal once, but now they filled him with terror and panic.  Hands taut on the lounger’s arms, Louie leaned forward.

“Tell me what happened, Gerard.”

Tears filled Gerard’s eyes as he stammered and stuttered, hobbling from foot to foot like a chastened child who was being disciplined.

“Now, Gerard,” he shouted, his baritone voice pounding through the air into the silence.

“I got caught,” breathed Gerard.

Panic surged through Louie’s face like a lightning bolt, before he composed himself and slipped back into his deliberately indifferent façade.  “Are the police after you?”

“I don’t think so, I gave the stuff back,” admitted Gerard.

Louie nodded, before he patted his lap and said, “Come here, baby.”

Warily, Gerard tiptoed to him and sat on his lap.

“No, straddle me.”

Wrapping his legs around Louie, Gerard sat flush against him, staring into his eyes, face red with mortification and dread.

Gently, softly, Louie raised a hand and caressed Gerard’s face, pushing his hair behind his ears, sliding his nails down his cheekbone, flicking his lip lightly, ghosting his fingertips over his eyelids, before he drew back his hand and gave Gerard a hard slap from cheek to cheek, knocking the air out of him.

Following the slap through, Gerard slumped forward against Louie, cheek tingling and burning.  He began to whimper, cradling his swollen face with his hand. However, he didn’t cry – he hated himself when he cried in front of Louie.  Mostly, he felt so, so ashamed, like all of his dignity had dissolved with that slap, like he was a toy, a puppet on strings, for Louie to play with and hurt. He felt pathetic.

“You’re not going to get caught again, are you?” asked Louie, smirking.

“N-no,” cried Gerard, sitting up straight and touching his face.  Heat radiated from the blotch and he could feel his heartbeat in it.

“No what?” teased Louie, touching the mark.

Trying not to flinch, Gerard said, “No, sir,” and despite himself, he felt himself grow a little bit harder in his jeans, which he was certain Louie felt.

And just as he thought, Louie reached down and traced him through the demin, hardening him more.  As much as Gerard tried not to be turned on by Louie, every time he touched him like this, every time he made him his, he was reminded of that arrogant man who’d touched him onstage at the bar and took him home, and every time he thought of that, he couldn’t say no to him.

“Wanna go to the bedroom?”

Gerard nodded, blushing and moving his hips against his hand.

“Wanna let me treat you real nice?” whispered Louie in his ear, making Gerard tremble.

“Yes, sir,” he almost moaned.

Lifting him off his lap and into his arms, Louie carried him up the stairs to their bedroom, decorated in modern shades of black and red and perfectly made up.  The pain in his cheek was fading now, and Gerard was trembling with excitement as Louie hurled him onto the bed and climbed on top.  Once again, the feeling of Louie grinding himself (he was _huge_ ) onto Gerard consumed him with lust, something he just couldn’t help.  Maybe he was a slut, and maybe a small part of him liked when Louie pulled him around and hurt him, or maybe he just liked cock.  He wasn’t sure, but with Louie sucking at his neck and undoing his jeans he was rock solid.

“Turn over, baby,” hissed Louie, voice filled with lust.

With a moan, Gerard rolled onto his front. As his shirt was removed, Louie raked his nails down his back, over the raised scars from his scratches. Slowly, his jeans were removed, and the icy feeling of the lube touched his rim.  He was used to it by now, but he still whimpered at the feeling.

Louie’s finger entered him, and Gerard thrusted back onto it.

“We do this all the time, I don’t need all this fucking prep,” he said.  “…Sir.”

Obliging, Louie shoved in three fingers, hitting Gerard right in that bundle of nerves that made his dick twitch, before they were removed. Nevertheless, Gerard didn’t have long to whine about it before Louie’s thick member was against his entrance and shoved inside in one long thrust.

“Fuck!” groaned Gerard, hips grinding on his cock, head down in the bed sheets.

It all felt like normal – felt like heaven – with Louie fucking him like he didn’t want Gerard to walk for weeks, like he wanted to fucking wreck him, like he wanted to make him forget every name but ‘Louie’.

But he didn’t forget every name but ‘Louie’, he remembered one other, and that name filled him with guilt.

“Frank,” he whispered.

Louie stopped moving inside of him and pulled Gerard up by the hair to look into his eyes. Furious, he yelled, “Who the fuck is Frank?”

“I – I don’t know – please don’t stop fucking me, sir…”

“Oh shut up, you fucking whore, tell me who he is!” Louie shook him by the roots of his hair, jaw muscles clenched.

“Christ, Louie!  He’s nobody! Stop!”

“Oh yeah?  Then who the fuck is texting you?”

Oh no. Fuck.  “For fuck’s fucking sake!” yelled Gerard, pulling away from Louie and sitting up beside him.

“Who’s texting you, huh?”  He twisted Gerard’s hair before letting go.

“Louie, why the hell do you have my phone?”

“Why the fuck shouldn’t I?” retorted Louie, putting in Gerard’s password.  “You hiding something from me?  You fucking hiding something, slut?”

Rapidly, Gerard lunged for the phone but Louie ripped it out of his grip.  “You know I’m not, Louie!”

“Then who.  The fuck. Is he?”  He punctuated his breaks with a flick of Gerard’s prick, making him gasp and glare.

“He’s the guy from the booze store.  The one I got caught at,” admitted Gerard through his gritted teeth.

Laughing cruelly, Louie replied, “The one you just happened to exchange numbers with?”

“So what if we did?  I’m allowed to have friends, Louie!”

“Friends?  I don’t say my friends’ names during sex, do I?”

Sighing, Gerard pushed his hair out of his eyes and declared, “Look, it was an accident, okay?  I love you.”

Frustrated, Louie wiped the sweat from his face before saying, “Fine.  I love you too.”

Gerard grabbed Louie’s half-hard member and said, “So can we carry on?”

“No calling out names this time?” he teased, reaching back for Gerard’s.

“Just please fuck me, sir,” begged Gerard like a slut. Strangely, he liked being submissive – it was just something about him.

Louie groaned before flipping him over and fucking him again, growing harder once his dick was inside Gerard’s ass.

As they ground together, moaning and gasping and fucking ruthlessly, Gerard felt himself tighten in the pit of his stomach. Grabbing helplessly at the bedsheets, he yelled out, “Fuck!  Can I come, sir?”

Louie kept fucking, but he grabbed for something off of the bedside table that Gerard didn’t look at; he didn’t want to be disobedient and not allowed to come.  Every thrust to his prostate brought Gerard a little closer, until he was whining and begging and writhing and –

“You can come, baby,” whispered Louie.

And he did, but at the very second he came all over his own fist, an agonizing sharp pain went down his back, and another, and another. By the fifth, Gerard had come down from his high and was already screeching.  By the eighth, he was choking back tears, but Louie held him down with his free hand and was whispering sweet nothings into his ear and the bolts of pain struck his back.

Eventually, after about twenty, he said, “Go to the mirror and turn around.”

Standing up shakily, Gerard went to the long mirror across the room, but wasn’t prepared for the sight he saw when he turned around.

Stuck into his back, causing blood to trickle along the slalom of his spine, were needles.  Syringes. Hypodermic needles. Empty, but hanging from his skin like spikes, jabbing into him.  Looking relatively clean, but who the fuck knew really?  As gasps escaped him, Gerard began to sob, shaking and wailing into his hands.

“Are you going to say his name again?”

“N-no, sir,” cried Gerard.

“And are you going to text him?”

“N-no, I’m n-not, sir.”

“Do you want me to take them out?”

“Y-yes, _please_ , sir!”

And so, twenty minutes later by the fire, Louie was plucking the needles from Gerard’s skin and putting Band-Aids over them, and rubbing foundation over the hickeys blossoming on his neck, whilst Gerard eyed his phone from across the room and thought of that short, striking boy named Frank who he could never find again.


	3. Iero's Tattoos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard decides to visit Frank's tattoos parlor, and learns that maybe he shouldn't touch anything, because the place is filthy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, for Jodie, who nagged me like a second mother into writing this. Sorry that it is ever so late, I have been pretty ill recently, physically and mentally, but I finally got this out into the world.

The place was a goddamn wreck.

Lingering in front of Frank’s tattoo parlor, Gerard flicked the chipping paint on the window frame with his index finger, and gazed up at the rundown shack of a building.  Behind him, the stairs leading up to it wavered uneasily in the warm breeze, and rot was gnawing into the banisters.  Neon lights above spelt out _Iero Tattoos_ , although the ‘R’ light had burnt out.  By the railings, at the very edge of the platform before the door, was a potted lemon tree parading rotting fruit proudly on its skinny branches, a futile attempt to rectify the decaying atmosphere of the entire place (though, obviously, one look at the shriveled prune of a lemon dangling flaccid from its stalk was enough to slide a new layer of distaste onto the pile).

Gerard put his face to the glass of the door, trying to look through, but it was filthy.  Sponging the dust from his forehead, Gerard finally knocked on the door. Butterflies brushed the insides of Gerard’s stomach as he waited.  Perhaps he shouldn’t have come, perhaps Frank didn’t want to see him again at all and Gerard was just a meaningless criminal to him.  Shame was already coloring his face at the idea of being made a fool of – he knew he was a fool, but he didn’t like when it was proved to him.

In fact, he was just about to turn and leave when he heard keys jangling inside of the room.  Turning back, he faintly made out the silhouette of Frank fretting at the lock inside through the filth spread like film over the windows.

About two minutes and ten curse words later, Frank swung the door open.

“Hey!” he greeted, all blasé, but his twisted grin and blush were enough to make Gerard smile.  “I wasn’t expecting you today!”

“To be honest, I don’t think you were expecting anyone today,” laughed Gerard.

Frank bit his lip and ran a finger down the grime. _Shit, did I offend him?_ Gerard panicked internally.  Five seconds of agonizing later, Frank let out a barking laugh, and Gerard softened.

“Yeah, this place is a motherfucking dump,” admitted Frank, wandering inside.  “I really don’t have the cash to fix this place up.”

Inside was marginally cleaner, with a lovely reception area adorned with images of possible tattoos. They were beautifully coloured designs of mermaids and anchors; all the regular stuff you’d find at an everyday tattoo parlor, but yet so different.  Colours spurted out from the designs like ink could seep from one’s very skin.

“You likey?” asked Frank.

Gerard raised his eyebrows.

“Oh yeah, needles.  Damn. I haven’t had much work for ages.” He smiled ruefully, but anxiety clouded his eyes.

Gerard swallowed back the needles comment, before responding, “Why not?  These designs are great! Look at these!”

Tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind his ear, Frank grinned.  “But these aren’t anything special, you could get these designs anywhere.  I couldn’t design my own to save my life.”

Stark and proud on his neck was one of Frank’s tattoos, a scorpion on his neck.  Eyes zeroing in on it, Gerard was filled with an urge to lick it – guilt stained his cheeks. Quickly, he blinked out of his tiny fantasy and back to where Frank had cocked his head with silent worry.

“Sorry, just thinking,” Gerard laughed, ruffling his hair. “To be honest, if I wasn’t terrified of needles –“ Pinpricks of pain jabbed into his back at the thought, a reminder of just what Louie could do to him “- I’d want one of your tattoos on me.”

Snickering, Frank replied, “I’d want to design one of my own for you.”

“Oh really?”  Gerard popped out his hip.  “What would you give me?”

“The sun from the Teletubbies, right on your left asscheek.”

“Holy shit.”  Gerard doubled over with laughter, eyes squeezed shut, side aching. Frank leaned on him with similar laughter, and his weight on Gerard’s side was pleasant for a moment, until he leaned on Gerard’s plasters.  Abruptly, Gerard pulled away, hissing.

“Hey, you okay?”

Eyes closed, Gerard answered, “Yeah.  I have a pretty nasty bruise there.”

“Shit, how’d you do that?”

“I can’t even remember, I was so drunk.”

Frank snorted, before they fell into a rather awkward silence. It was odd looking down at a man Gerard almost felt inferior to, but it gave him a better angle to look into his eyes, at least until Frank glanced away… but he didn’t. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and Gerard’s eyes watched, choking on their endeavors to swallow the hunger in them.

Finally, when Gerard couldn’t take it anymore, he called out, “Hand me a washrag and some soap.”

“…Why?”

“I’m gonna clean your windows,” muttered Gerard.

“…Alright.”

The clumsiness of the situation filled Gerard was embarrassment, but when Frank’s hand grazed his as he passed the washrag over, static electricity jolted his arm and left a tingling feeling (but that might have been more than just the jab). 

As Gerard wiped, feeling ever prouder at every clean spot he left, Frank pored over his records, hunched over at the reception desk.

“Do any of your friends want tattoos?”

“Hm,” pondered Gerard, squinting at the little traces of dirt that had escaped his scrubbing, “maybe my brother, Mikey.”

Eyebrows raised, Frank playfully pointed a pen at Gerard. “Suggest my place, okay? It may look like a dump, but I can make magic happen.”  He winked.

Hiding his blush, Gerard replied, “It won’t look like a dump after I’m through with it.”

“Are you staying long, then?” said Frank hopefully (or at least, Gerard wished that that was how he said it).

The numbers glowing on Gerard’s phone screen told him that he had to go, and now – how did an hour go so fast? – but he replied, “No, but I’ll be back… if you want me.”

“Trust me, I do,” said Frank, before blushing and turning away in his chair.

As hard as he tried, Gerard couldn’t muffle the small satisfied smile on his face as he picked up the shop carrier bags and left the room.

“Wait, I’ll call you!” yelled Frank, beaming.

Shock raced up Gerard’s spine, and he whispered back, urgency in his eyes, “I, uh, please don’t.”

Frank’s eyebrows drew together.  “Huh?  Why?”

God, how could everything be ruined in the last moment, when it was going so well?  _He’ll hate me now_ , said Gerard, but the pinpricks in his back and the bruises on his hipbones told him he had no choice. “Just – just trust me. I know we haven’t known one another for very long, but please have faith in me when I say that you can’t call me, or text me.  If I can, I’ll text first.”

Still rather shocked, Frank nodded.

“Can I still see you?”

“Of course!” Frank eagerly replied.

Beaming, Gerard nodded.

“But Gerard?”

“Mhm?” he replied, foot tapping on the ground as the seconds ticked away.

“I saw you looking at the designs, and how you described them, I… Are you an artist?”

Thinking of his sketches back at home, hidden beneath the mattress of his bed, Gerard nodded.  “I suppose so, yeah.”

“Okay, cool.  Just wondered.  Could you show me sometime?”

Blushing a little, Gerard said, “Maybe.”

Frank lit up like a floodlight with joy, quivering like an excited little boy, and since the days at the sleazy bars with Louie, years upon years ago, since the days discovering the potent effects of alcohol, and nicotine, and later cocaine, Gerard couldn’t remember a time when a single person had made him so deliriously happy.


	4. Sarah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything's fine and dandy at Ie(r)o's Tattoo Parlor except for the fact that he technically doesn't own the place according to court, and he has a pretty girl on the phone who really wants it back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm literally so sorry for taking so long but i'm literally the hugest piece of shit alive and i deserve all of your hate i'm so sorry here take this.  
> i promise that unless i update this story to say that i've abandoned it, i haven't abandoned it, i'm just, as i said, a lazy ass piece of fucking shit. please forgive meeee.
> 
> a huge thank you to gerudeway for getting my ass into gear and making me want to write this again. also a huge thank you to jodie aka bloodinfecticns for being a sweet darling whom i love. also thank you to karim for not being a massive fuckboy.

**Frank**

 

One of the things Frank noticed about Gerard was how fast he moved all of the time.  He was constantly on edge.  Most of his body wasn’t very muscular, but through his skinny jeans Frank noticed Gerard’s calves were lean and toned, due to the fact he was continuously poised on the balls of his feet, like he was waiting to bolt.  Even going down the stairs away from the tattoo parlor, he ran over the rickety wood like his life depended on him getting to the bottom.  Already, Frank was bemused and intrigued.  Holding his used rag in his hand, Frank waited at the window until Gerard passed the boundary of his window frame, before skulking back into the reception area.

Frank looked around his crumbling tattoo parlor. Outside the sun beat down, blistering rays unforgiving in their heat, and everything around wilted beneath it.  The street was silent, as nobody except Gerard, obviously, wanted to suffer the heat of midday, and were probably waiting for the evening to come before resuming in the day's activities.  Inside the tattoo parlor wasn't much better than outside; all Frank had was a small fan on the reception desk, blowing the balmy air back into his face and doing nothing about the sweat beading on his forehead.  The light from the sun shone through the gap in the grime that Gerard had made, unadulterated at last, reflecting off of the dust particles floating freely in the air and making the entire window look wonky, and maybe even worse than it did before, if that was possible. With a sigh, Frank seized the used rag and began to finish the job.

However, though he was absolutely _enthralled_ by the idea of cleaning windows, one thought pounded away at his mind like a trapped insect thrashing: Gerard, Gerard, _Gerard_.  As hard as he tried, he couldn’t get him out of his mind (well, cleaning windows isn’t the most thought-provoking of activities, and therefore left his mind free to roam and wander whilst his arm did most of the work autonomously.)  The boy who was a few days ago a selfish shoplifter was now a complete enigma to him. He had the eyes of an artist, hence why he asked, but the position of a deer in the headlights, taut and afraid. However, upon loosening up, he walked with a natural grace and though he had a tendency to blush and stammer, it was as if every fibre in his body worked in perfect coordination, like gears in a machine.  His boots held him firmly in place, his back was arched with an almost feminine curve, and his thin wrists held soft, smooth hands that gestured dramatically, especially when he wasn’t thinking about it.

 _God, he’d only come around for an hour or so_ , Frank thought, blushing. Frank had intended to befriend him, but he needed his mind clear around him.  He needed to think, he needed to act, he needed to –

In his pocket, Frank’s phone began to chime. Wiping his hands on his jeans – they were black, luckily, so the stains didn’t show – Frank reached in and pulled it out.  Upon seeing the caller ID, Frank’s stomach dropped and bile burned in his throat.  Hands shaking, he lifted the phone to his ear.

“Sarah?” he whispered.

Without so much as a hello, she leapt into voice. “Frank, I’ve had enough.”

“Enough of what?”

“You fucking know what, bastard!  I’ve had enough of waiting for your fucking instalments. Believe it or not, I have better things to be doing with my time.”

Vomit churned in his stomach, and Frank knelt over the bin as a precaution.  “I t-told you, I’m n-not getting much service right now.”

"Oh, not getting much service right now?" she repeated in a softer, gentler voice.

"Y-yeah, the place is pretty much abandoned nowadays."

"Ain't that just so sad?" she said, breathy and dramatic.

Frank didn't even breathe down the phone so as to not make noise down the receiver with the air from his nose.

She gave a sweet, silvery laugh. "Wow, it was  _me_ who was the MVP of that place then, wasn't I?"

"If you count laughing at customers' jokes and making shitty coffee a valuable role, then yeah, I guess you are," snapped Frank, unable to reign himself in for once.

"Don't  _fuck_ with me while I'm fucking with  _you_ , Iero," she hissed.

Frank fell silent, both in fear and in confusion as to what she meant.  That was the thing about Sarah; she could say anything she liked and as long as she said it in the right tone - in that patronising, husky voice of hers - you'd still recoil in fear.  

Down the line, Sarah sighed and Frank heard her tapping her nails rhythmically along the base of her phone.  “Frank. Frank, love.”

Shivers ran down Frank’s spine.

“Frankie, baby.”

His spare hand balled into a fist.  “Don’t call me that.”

“How about this: you get to decide what I call you when I get my fucking money.”

“How about I give you your money when you show me the documents saying that this place is yours?”

“The judge thought the documents were good enough.”

“But –“

“Look, Frankie, I ain’t gonna lie to ya no more. I want my money, and I want it fast. I want a place for me and my new guy but I ain’t got no cash for one, but I know that fucking place would be worth a dime – or at least, it would be if it was freshened up a little, not left to rot like you leave it –“

“I literally have no money, Sarah.”

“Then get the fuck out of my property!”

Gagging again, Frank grabbed the rim of the dustbin, but his retching was dry and scraped at the back of his throat. He took a deep breath, sat back on his heels and said, “I will not leave, Sarah.  I won’t.”

For a while, Sarah was silent, and Frank hoped that she’d gone, but then she exhaled and said, quietly, “I’ll make you a deal.”

“…Go on.”

“If you can get me three quarters – no, two thirds – of that money… I’ll get you off the rest.  Two thirds is all I need.”

Eyes widening, Frank considered her offer. An entire third off… that was a good seven thousand dollars off of his worries.  Still shaken, he stuttered, “Wh-what’s the catch?”

“You have six months.”

“…What happens after that?”

“You’re gone.  Out of my property and out of my life, at long fucking last.”

It took only a second for Frank to decide what he had to do. “Deal.”

Frank could almost _feel_ Sarah smirk from down the phone line as she hung up.  The memory of her crimson lips twisting into that smile of hers, a flash of pale white teeth, her dark, heavy eyes drawing up into a smile that didn’t reassure you but toyed with you, teased you, ridiculed you… The very thought of it was repulsive.  He remembered how one look from her deep brown eyes made him feel like he was alone in front of thousands of people, looking a fool, instead of above her in bed. Glancing at the reception, he remembered the sound of her long fake nails tapping lightly on the keyboard, and of her sweet, fake smile and gentle voice as she organised the files and led customers into Frank’s room.  He remembered just how she looked in a baggy band t-shirt tucked into the waistband of a short skater skirt, and those thick-rimmed black glasses she used to wear on the job because she thought they looked ‘professional’ and ‘improved her focus’… He remembered Sarah screaming and crying about how _sorry_ she was after she’d cheated on him for another man and just happened to have been just a _teensy weensy_ little bit careless and let him post a photo of them drunk on the internet. He remembered the harsh force of her father’s fist in his face as he yelled at him for taking his daughter’s money. He remembered begging to keep the parlor. He remembered Sarah’s hair falling choppily behind her as she walked away for the final time…

A rough, harsh sound erupted from the back of his throat, not a sob but a _groan_ , a groan that shook his body and forced him into a ball on the floor, head cradled in his arms. Then, after groaning on the floor for a while thinking about his impending doom at the hands of his evil ex-girlfriend, Frank dragged himself up and made himself some coffee. He would have used decaf, but it tasted weird and Frank didn’t care if he stayed up all day, as he needed to think anyway.

After a short period of groaning and humming to his favourite songs, Frank poured the hot water and the instant coffee powder into his favourite mug - it was black but upon going hot it turned white, which he thought was literally _so_ amazing and he got excited every time it changed colour – and leaned up against his counter.  The second the coffee passed his lips, he remembered something, something vital. He jerked upright, eyes wide, a smile slowly spreading on his face:

He knew what he had to do to keep his home.


End file.
